“Holdin’ up alright, there, Peaches?” Runner asked, voice low in deference to the sleeping Marines slumped across every surface, and brought a hand up to rest against Bob’s shoulders.

“Oh, sure.” Bob nodded as well as he could, folded over the water-slick taffrail like a sack doll. “Fit ‘s a - urp.” He pressed his mouth closed and squeezed his eyes shut, wrinkling his nose when the captured breath burned its way out. He stayed there for a long second, gut tight and nostrils stinging, then sighed, “Fiddle,” when he felt confident he was no longer about to lose the evening’s mess over the bow.